


Every day is exactly the same (at the end of the world)

by redtoes



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Apocalyptothon 2010, Carpenter kids, Gen, Jawas (Dresden files), POV Molly Carpenter, cosy catastrophe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoes/pseuds/redtoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly, Daniel, Matthew, Alicia, Amanda, Hope, and Harry cope with life after the end of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every day is exactly the same (at the end of the world)

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2010 so it references Changes and there's one small spoiler for end of Small Favor, but nothing extreme.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no money out of this.

Every day, when the sun has dropped enough to touch the top of the trees surrounding us, I make my rounds.

Walking these walls, pacing the limits of my existence like a guard dog or restless prisoner, I let my mind flow outwards, searching for holes, gaps – any weakness in the camp’s defenses. 

I know the path so well I could walk it blindfolded, which is lucky as when my mind is thrown outwards I have little attention left to spare for my physical surroundings.  The metaphysical takes so much of me, and I’m never entirely sure it lets me take all of it back in when I’m done.

But I’m the only one who can do this.  The only one who can patch our wards, sew closed the seams and gaps of our magical protection.  The only one with the power to keep back the darkness, keep up the walls.

Every day it takes more and more out of me, draining my power away until one day I’m scared I won’t have enough left.

But I can’t stop.

Not when my family’s relying on me to hold this line.

*****

Daniel spends two hours in practice every day with Amoracchius.

Three years ago he didn’t know where to start.  Mother had originally refused to teach him, her love for her children outweighing her faith that God would save her son from the same fate that befell her husband.  My father.

Daniel, being as much our mother’s son as he is our father’s, refused to take no for an answer.  Seeking out amongst the battered ranks of refugees a former fencing student he learned some basics. Then spent hours adapting moves for the foil into tactics for a broadsword.  The amount of bruises, torn muscles, and deep cuts on his hands and arms he quietly put up with… 

Mother never really gave in to Daniel.  But then I think even she knew she wasn’t going to win.  We’re a stubborn lot, us Carpenters, and when we have the Lord on our side we’ve got a habit of winning the day.

Even if it did leave my father crippled.

Daniel swings the blade up into a guard.  He pauses for a count of five then turns smoothly, the sword moving like an extension of his body and not the weighty metal I know it to be.

There’s a nail from the crucifixion in the pommel.

The hilt is bound with leather, the metal of the guard worn smooth from the hours of practice, years of combat, centuries of different hands upon it.

If I think back far enough I can remember when the sword was taller than I was.  When it was just me and Mother and Dad, and Daniel in a cradle, I watched my father clean the blade, sharpening and oiling and smoothing away the chips and cuts of battle.

He said it was important to respect your tools.  Maintain and protect them so they can maintain and protect you.

Daniel twists, the blade cutting through the air to stop, abruptly.  He holds there, sweat beading on his forehead.

In his mind, was that a killing stroke?  A decapitation or fatal thrust?  Daniel breathes out deeply, lowering the sword, letting whatever mental illusion of attackers he practises against disperse.

He sees me watching, standing here silently, and raises an eyebrow. 

I tap my wrist in the spot where I once wore a wristwatch.

His eyes twitch up to the sun, almost at its peak, and he smiles in recognition.

“Sorry,” he offers with no trace of apology in his voice.

I shake my head, no apology is necessary. 

“Just don’t overdo it,” I say, “I’d rather you were well rested and able to fight than tired out by too much practice.”

“Practice makes perfect,” he replies as we turn to walk together across the camp. 

But it’s an old argument, said as much for something to say than the fact we disagree.  Later, as the sun dips towards the horizon and I start my walk of the perimeter, Daniel will be back in this space, moving as one with his sword of the cross, no matter what I say.

Just as he is, every day.

*****

Of the seven of us, Matthew is the best farmer, spending every day tending the few crops our settlement has been able to plant and maintain.

He never took to swordplay, though as his dutiful self he stands many practice rounds with Daniel. 

He knows, as do Daniel, Alicia and myself, of the heritage of Amoracchius and the burden placed upon our bloodline. 

We try and keep that particular bit of truth from the youngest of our siblings.  After all, our father was willing to give up the sword, passing it to my former teacher Harry to hold in trust for him. 

There was never any talk of his passing it down to one of us, but, as Daniel said when the world ended and he and I made pilgrimage to retrieve it from the ashes of St Mary’s, how many people could there be left who could wield it?

It’s not, as Harry once pointed out, like there’re a lot of royal descendants running around the place crying out for magical swords.

Matthew, if he could, would wish no part of it.  Always a quiet child he has found his place amongst growing things.  Green fingers that helped our mother weed the garden now ensure there’s enough for us all to eat.

He’s diligent and dedicated and dutiful.  Patient enough to tend plants not yet sprouting, and laid-back enough to find long afternoons of solitude and silence peaceful.

“Radishes are coming up well,” he says as I approach, wiping the dirt from his hands with an old rag.

“Radishes.” I echo, “Lovely.”

Matthew raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t otherwise challenge my tone.

“I’ll need all hands soon enough.” He squints out across the small field.  “Next week there’ll be plenty ready to go.”

All hands on deck.  Everyone has to harvest.

Those are days when we all work the fields.  Exhausting days that require every member of our tiny community to pitch in – from the smallest child to the most infirm of the elderly.

We’re not a large settlement – partly by design.  Mother brought us here to start again as a family, and though we’ve been joined by a few over the years, our family is still the largest and most intact one here.

Most we met tended to pass on through, or at least they did two winters back when refugees were still a common sight.  We’ve had no visitors at our doors for quite some time, though Daniel and I occasionally run across survivors on our trips out scavenging beyond the walls.

It’s no town we live in - just a few old buildings and thrown together shelters inside the remains of an old civil war fort protected by my spells and Daniel’s sword arm.

I sigh, looking around.  In the middle distance Alicia is pulling water from the pump into an old bucket. 

“Everyone who can help will help.  The Jawas can be on water duty – we’ll shut down school for a few days.” 

Matthew answers my smile with a rare grin of his own.

“He will provide,” he says, before turning away.

I wish I had his faith.

*****

Little Harry whoops with delight to learn he won’t be in lessons every day next week.

“You understand this is work,” I say.  “You have to do everything Matthew says.  It’s not going to be easy.”

But he’s already off and running.  Delighted with his respite from the small amount of education my siblings and I try to teach him.

Amanda turns to me, ever neat and tidy, even in these less than perfect conditions.

“He’s going to get dirty,” she says primly. 

“He’s already dirty.” I point out.

“He’s only got the two shirts,” she answers, her tone remarkably similar to one Mother would use when someone was misbehaving. 

“I’ll find more,” I say, “let him play.”

Daniel picks Harry up, swinging him round in the air.  Harry shrieks with delight as Daniel spins, throwing Harry up into the air and catching him with ease.

Amanda frowns.

I purposely ruffle her neat ponytail, causing some strands of hair to come loose and fall around her face.

“Molly!”

“Cheer up 'Manda,” I tease, “What’s the worst that can happen?”  I smile ruefully, indicating the settlement around us.  “World already ended.”

Amanda stares at me coldly, then turns on her heel.

“Amanda,” I call after her.

“I’m going to see if Alicia needs help,” she says precisely and I wonder what it is that turned my second youngest sister, so delighted as she was with the world, into such a cold fish.  She was always neat and precise but mischievous with it.

And now…

Thirteen is a difficult age, but that’s no reason to shut yourself off from the world.  It’s not like she has my teenage problems of suddenly appearing magical abilities and hiding my less appropriate outfits from Mother.

Mother.

She would know what to do.

I feel a dull pang in my chest.  As if my heart has just skipped a beat.  I never knew it was possible to miss anyone this much.

I feel a small hand slip into mine.

I look down to see Hope’s big blue eyes staring up at me.  I can’t help but smile. 

“It’s okay little bear,” I say, “Amanda’s just being Amanda.”

“She misses home,” Hope says insightfully.  “She wishes we were back home.”

Hope’s arms wrap around my stomach and I hug her back, stroking her hair.  Behind us Harry whoops as Daniel flings him around.

“I miss home too Hope.  We all do.”

*****

One of us had to inherit our mother’s gifts in the kitchen, and so every day Alicia is to be found slaving over a literal hot stove, preparing the food for the evening meal.

My mother was a genius in the kitchen.  Nothing was beyond her skill.  When I was small she used to try and teach me baking – cookies and cakes and pies.  Desserts created from scratch with flour and sugar and butter and eggs.  Layers of pastry rolled out and out again on a floured board.  Tipping eggs from one half of the shell to the other.

I wonder now if her determination to do everything the hard, old-fashioned way by power of muscle and sinew alone was her atonement.  Her decision to take the harder path and let her magic fade away.

I never had the same touch with food as she did.  My attempts were always lacklustre and though she would reassure me that the skill would come, the talent develop, it never did.

That particular ability skipped a daughter. 

She gave me other things instead.

Though she never once admitted it.

Amanda stirs a large pot suspended over the low flames of the fire, purposely ignoring me.

Alicia rolls her eyes at our younger siblings behavior as she approaches to drop various chopped greenery into the liquid.

“Rabbit stew.” She says offhand. 

“Actual meat?  How?”

“Matthew’s snares caught a few going after his carrots.” Alicia offers, already back chopping vegetables.

I blink.

“Seriously, he caught rabbits going after carrots?”  I snigger.  “We’re eating Bugs?”

“Bugs?” Hope looks up at me, her big eyes wide.  “Spiders?”

“No sweetie no spiders.  No insects at all.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay.”  Hope says and wraps her arms around my stomach again.

Alicia and I exchange a smile over her head.

“What goes with rabbit Alicia?” Just because classes are nominally over doesn’t mean there aren’t still things for Amanda and Hope to learn.

Alicia makes a show of it.

“Rosemary,” she says.  “Can you show me which one that is?”

Hope scampers off towards where Matthew maintains herbs.

“Amanda,” Alicia suggests gently, “why don’t you give her a hand?”  She hands Amanda a small knife.  “We don’t need too much.”

Amanda accepts the knife and follows Hope, sparing the time on the way to glare at me.

I watch her go.

“I don’t remember it being this difficult when I was 13.” I say.

Alicia laughs, so much the image of our mother. 

“That’s because you were the problem!”

I can’t help but smile, looking around at my family.  Daniel still playing with Harry.  Matthew, a natural farmer in the fields.  Alicia able to sooth tantrums and tears.  Amanda showing Hope which plants are which.

The world is burnt and dead and we live here with plants that grow and animals that forage.  Living by the very definition of the grace of God.

“We’re so lucky,” I say softly, “to have all this.”

“Oh Molly,” Alicia says, her voice suddenly sad and serious.  “This is just a moment.  It won’t last.  How can it?”

“Don’t let your guard down,” she adds.  “We’ve far greater tasks ahead of us.” 

She looks past me into the middle distance, seeing something far more than just this broken down yard surrounded by walls and wards.  “We’re not safe.  Don’t let it fool you.”

Hope runs back across to us, a bunch of rosemary clasped in her hand.  Amanda follows behind, composed as ever.

Alicia bends to examine Hope’s find, complimenting and celebrating this tiny achievement.  She’s so maternal, her words causing Hope to swell up with pride, and even easing the dark look on Amanda’s features.  I wonder if she’ll ever have the chance to bear her own children, if this safe haven of ours could last into the next generation.

Somehow it doesn’t seem likely.

Silently I excuse myself, withdrawing from the domestic joy of it all, Alicia’s darkly prophetic words having chilled me to the bone.

*****

Every day I walk the walls.  I don’t look over.  I don’t look out at all.

Our complex is just under an ache in size.  Old stone walls patched with wooden barricades, chain-link fencing, anything we could find to plug the holes.

Not that the fence is the important part.  But wards are invisible and we all needed some physical sense of safety - something that we could see holding back the outside world, keeping us off the map and unnoticeable.

Hence the fence.

There’s a path worn inside it now, like you see in zoos.  Animals patrolling the limits of their existence.

I don’t look through.  I guess I’m a little scared of seeing what’s on the other side.

When Daniel and I make runs out into what used to be the world I hold the veil tight around us in silence.  Though we keep on the look out for danger, neither of us look very hard at what surrounds us.  It's just too hard.

Every day I do this, reinforce our wards, our walls, our safety.

Am I keeping them out or us in?  Do I even know who “they” are any more?  I don’t like the question, but tonight, with Alicia’s words so fresh in my memory, I can’t help but consider.

What comes next?  The world ended, the city fell and we ran and hid here.

If the walls fall here where will we run to?  Is there even anywhere left to go?

One day Harry and Hope and Amanda will be grown, and maybe then we can as a family take the next step.  Maybe take back a bit more of this world for our own.  Maybe a lot of things.

But for now, I hold the line, hiding us from sight and sound and perception.  Matthew and Alicia feed us.  Daniel protects. The children grow.  Every day we get a little bit closer to what comes next, a little bit further from what came before.

The weather is turning.  The one changeable thing is a word of sameness.  We'll have to start preparing for winter soon, stockpile firewood and supplies.  I walk the walls, reinforce the wards and build my mental list of tasks.

Tonight I will sleep.  Tomorrow I will rise and do this all again.  Maybe tomorrow Amanda will be in a more forgiving mood.  Maybe we'll have enough meat to last for another day, or will we be back to the weak vegetable broth that forms so many of our meals. 

Maybe.

Every day I make my rounds.

To keep us all alive, for just one more day.


End file.
